Forever Is A Collection Of Moments
by forever-ioand-ever
Summary: It's just that. A collection of moments, from every character and every time-period of the show. Enjoy, my Foreverists!
1. The Report

_ayenn: Hello, Foreverists! It's Morgan here, with some new tidbits and fun for you all to enjoy! This is a collection of random one-shots from all through time, some long, some short, some not even including any immortals but you'll still read, right? It's very random. Enjoy!_

* * *

 _1960_

He should've done it sooner.

Abe sighed, a long frustrated sigh. He leaned back in his rigid desk chair, balancing it on its two back feet, anchoring himself from falling by tucking his feet around the desk's horizontal support. He stared at the blank page in front of him, comfortably nestled in the cradle of the typewriter. The keys beckoned that he write, but Abe had nothing prepared to slam upon the pristine white sheet with the device's shaped hammers of ink.

He'd been given the assignment with two weeks notice. He should've just gone to the library that very afternoon to check out a book for his research. But he'd had a baseball game. That was a good reason to put off the homework for a day, right? Even if that game was a radio broadcast he and his friends got together to listen to?

And then he'd had that date with Winnie. Winifred Hutton. Boy, was she gorgeous! And after that...

Abe pushed himself up and away from the desk and its condemning typewriter. Excuses, excuses. He'd made a bunch of half-truth excuses to avoid the research paper. Now the due date stared him in the face, the library was closed, he had nothing but what was in the Morgan home with which to do the research.

 _Nothing but what's in this apartment... Or rather, nothing but_ who's _in this apartment..._

{*****}

"Hey, Dad?"

Henry looked up from the medical journal he was reading to see his teenage son standing in the doorway of his office, a notebook tucked under his right arm. Henry laid the journal on his desk, marking the page with a scrap of ribbon in the event it were to close on itself.

"Yes, Abraham?" he asked as he set aside the journal.

Abe walked into the office and settled on one of the more plush chairs in front of his father's desk. He looked around at the bookshelves lining the walls, filled to the brim with the volumes of medical literature Henry had studied over the years. If only he needed sources for a science report… Abe remembered his purpose and returned his eyes to his father.

"You don't have to wear the glasses here, Dad," Abe smiled.

Henry put his hand up to his face and seemed utterly surprised that the wire-framed glasses were still in front of his eyes. He took them off and, folding them shut, laid them on the desk. He'd gotten the glasses a few years ago to dispel suspicion of his lack of aging, most men "his age" needed something at least for reading up close.

Henry, now de-spectacled, gave a pointed look to his son. "Indeed I do not. I was a bit absorbed in that article, I must have forgotten I was still wearing them. But I do not believe that is what you came to me about."

"I've been thinking…"

Henry grinned to himself. With all the mischief Abe had come up with in his fifteen years of life, Henry wondered what strange idea his not-so-little boy would have this time.

"Well, you've lived a pretty long time and all…" Abe continued tentatively. Henry thought his deliberation over the words was from the awkwardness of an impending question; truly Abe was trying to figure out how to get the information he needed without revealing his true intentions.

"And since I'm gonna be living on my own soon, I thought maybe the most experienced man I know could offer me some advice?"

Abe gave his father a hopeful smile. He shrugged his shoulders and leaned closer to the desk, watching Henry's every move. He could see the wheels turning in his mind, spinning and bringing forth memories of the youth culture of the early nineteenth century.

"I remember having this conversation with my father," Henry mused, looking out to nowhere in particular as if the scene from his own youth a century and a half before were being projected onto the bookshelved walls of the office. "Of course, I was a bit older, accepted to medical school, and in a steady courtship at the time… How was your date last week, by the way? I never got a chance to ask. Her name was… Minnie?"

"Winnie, Dad," Abe corrected, rolling his eyes. "Winifred Hutton. And let's just say there isn't going to be another one. You were saying?"

"Ah, yes. The evening my father and I sat down to talk about my responsibilities as a man, a Briton, and a husband. It was a bit of a rainy night, mid-April, I believe. We were travelling back to our home after one of Father's trips to London. He had owned a shipping company and had brought me along to see a fleet off to the colonies. At that point, I had yet to declare my intentions to study medicine, so Father was preparing me to take his place in the family business.

"It was the second night of our journey. Father handed the reins of our two horses over to me, which was out of the ordinary. He never would let me drive the team on an actual roadway, it was a man's job, not a boy's job, he said. We didn't have a name for teenagers then; one day you were a boy, the next you were a man. Or, in my case, it happened at night."

As Henry began his story with all the detail only someone such as himself would remember a century and a half after the aforementioned events, Abe began stenographing his father's words. Were Henry to not be so focused on telling his story, he may have noticed that his son began taking the notes on his advice before the advice was given. But Henry was now too absorbed in his memories of youth to notice the actions of his son.

"I'd driven for a mile or so, silently, focusing on keeping control of the chestnut stallions leading us back home. Father turned to me and he began offering advice, not directly addressing me, just sort of saying it. Father wasn't a very emotional sort of person, perhaps it was in his personality, or perhaps it was a product of being a man in a patriarchal society.

"It was rigid, a man's role in my youth. The same goes for a woman's role. We had our assigned spheres, we remained in them. As much as history writes that the nineteenth century was a world controlled by men, every social standard for men was established to serve the lady."

Abe continued scribbling out his father's words in the notebook, trying to keep up with his pace of elocution. Hopefully he could read this when it came time to type it.

"A man was to provide for and protect his family. You have seen how obstinate I can be about that sometimes," Henry smiled knowingly. Though he and Abigail both worked, any time he could convince her to take a day off, he tried his hardest. Even if he was more ill than she.

"A man always deferred to the lady. One was to go out of his way to make her life more comfortable. Whether that be walking along with her as one talked, even if one was headed in the opposite direction, or making sure her skirts weren't caught in the carriage doors, even greetings were designed to please the lady."

Henry broke his gaze from the distance, focusing now on his son as he began to dole out his modernized version of fatherly advice. Abe looked up at him, still writing, hoping that the words would be readable when he returned his eyes to the paper.

"Your generation would do good to have some of those. Gentlemen. Kind, considerate individuals who will go out of their way for the benefit of another. People who aren't crass or rude, in public or in private. You are in your own new culture, Abraham, but it would be good to reinstate some of those values of my generation that those in between ours have pushed by the wayside."

Abe put on what he hoped was a grateful expression as Henry finished. He was praying that his father's usual uncanny perspicacity would be lacking at the moment, for if anyone could see through to Abe's true intentions, it was Henry. For once, Henry's power to always see the truth seemed to be weakened, for Abe was asked no further questions and was able to make it back up to his room and get to work on the paper

{*****}

"Abraham, may I speak with you for a moment?"

Abe turned around in the classroom doorway to face his history teacher. The older man looked down on him through his wire-rimmed glasses. The teen dutifully, if a bit reluctantly, turned back into the room and made his way to the teacher's desk.

"Yes, Mr. Doniger?"

"I have graded you last research paper, and I have to say, I was impressed. Writing a fictional account of a nineteenth-century youth and still managing to fulfill the content requirements of the assignment is quite an achievement, and a massive improvement over your previous essays. I did, however, notice your lack of a references page. Do you have any idea what might have happened to that?"

"Oh, that…" Abe paused for time to come up with an excuse. "I must have left it on my typewriter. Would it be alright if I brought it in tomorrow?"

Mr. Doniger agreed to Abe's request. Now all Abe had to do was bluff up some sources and he'd be golden.

{*****}

Time had not been good to the evolution of the pupil desk.

Then again, Henry's formal education had been that of a private tutor. The classroom could be a desk as well as the most comfortable chair in the house Sometimes, he'd even drag the most comfortable chair in the house _to_ the desk for his studies. The wooden seating of the one-room schoolhouse at the very least promoted good posture because of the lack of a backrest. Now that someone had the bright idea to attach the desk to the chair, there was always too much space between the pupil and thw writing surface.

Such was the case with the desks in Mr. Doniger's room, so Henry had discovered. He was on edge enough about being called into his son's history class, the trifling thoughts of educational seating that wouldn't leave his mind weren't helping matters. He shared a quick glance with Abigail, who was seated in the desk next to him, looking all of the worried that he felt, and perhaps looked as well. Doniger at last found the paper he needed and looked up from his desk to the out-of-place couple.

"I'm sure you are wondering why I've called you in here today, Dr. and Mrs. Morgan. A few days ago, your son turned in a report. A phenomenal report, might I add. One of the best pieces he has written all year."

Henry and Abigail relaxed, Henry eve allowing himself to slouch down a fraction in the desk that he so despised for the very reason that it promoted slouching. But their respite was short-lived.

"However," Doniger continued, "he failed to cite any sources, and based on his previous performances in this class, I am inclined to believe there was cheating involved."

Doniger set the report in front of them, and Henry, in disbelief, began reading the paper. The paper that paralleled exactly the story he'd told Abraham a few days before, besides the omission of names. Abigail followed along over his shoulder as they read page after page of Henry's thinly veiled coming-of-age story. After husband and wife had finished the story to which they already knew the ending, Henry gave the stapled sheets back to Doniger.

"I do believe we will be having a serious discussion with Abraham tonight concerning academic integrity. Thank you for showing us this, Mr. Doniger."

{*****}

There was something off about it. As soon as Abe walked in the door from school, he could feel an odd sort oof tension in the apartment. Maybe something had happened at the hospital today; it was his father's day off, but if something had gone wrong, the staff didn't hesitate to call him in.

Abe thought his theory was confirmed by the flakes of gray painted through his father's hair. Normally, he'd avoid the graying routine any day he could; a day off was definitely a reason to avoid it.

Abe set his books down on top of the upright piano. He felt his father's eyes follow him across the room as he entered. It put Abe on edge.

"What?" he asked looking at Henry from the corner of his eye.

"I recieved a very interesting call today, Abraham."

Abe raised his brow incredulously. "Okay?"

"It was from a Samuel Doniger. Your history teacher?" He was giving Abe The Look. Not the disappointed look, but the look right before the disappointed look. Abe's eyes grew wide with fear.

 _He knew._

"Sit down with me for a moment, Abe."

Abe obediently took a seat on the couch.

"Your teacher believes you cheated on that assignment. And I agree with him."

"What?"

"Using my testimony as your manuscript is essentially having me write the paper for you."

"But it's _firsthand_ testimony. That's in, like, a ton of old books. Do you think those books are more accurate than someone who actually lived it?" Abe reasoned.

"And how do you expect to explain your sources? Tell them your father was born in 1779 and hope they believe in immortality?"

Abe shook his head, eyes downcast. "I don't know."

"Precisely." Henry chided. "Which is why, from now on, you cannot ask me for assistance of any kind on a history assignment. Do you understand?"

"Yessir."

"Very well." Henry put a hand on Abe's shoulder. " And don't call me sir."

"Why not?"

Henry rose from the couch and looked down at Abe. "That story we will save until _after_ you've studied the abolition of slavery."

* * *

 _so I've decided to give you some oneshots I've been writing here and there over the course of the season because I'm a nice person like that(: I've had this idea since the episode with teenage Abe. Doesn't he seem like the kind of kid who would totally do this? I mean, if my father had lived through the era I needed to research, I wouldn't hesitate to ask for a story or two..._


	2. Cat

_2008_

It was a simple task. First-year nursing students did it in campuses all across the country, every day, every year.

Lucas Wahl shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair of the lecture hall as he watched the professor's detailed, in-depth, graphic slideshow of the procedure he and his classmates were to complete over the semester. He wasnt sure whether to be intrigued or disgusted, and, so it seemed, were his classmates. Some watched intently, leaning forward to get a better view and taking copious notes, others shrunk back in their seats, and the majority remained in a limbo of awe and abhorration.

Lucas really didnt know what he was signing up for when he switched his major to a medical focus, except of course the almost-guaranteed piles of dollar signs in his future. Much more lucrative than indie filmmaking, medicine was. He had not at all been expecting a project of this depth and scale on his first day in class.

After an hour of looking at every step of the procedure from every conceivable angle (he did have to give credit to the photographer, who had used the poor-for-photogrqphy laboratory lighting to his or her advantage), the class dismissed. As he walked across the quad, Lucas had to keep reminding himself why he'd chosen this new direction for his future.

The next day, the students recieved their specimens. Lucas' was oddly familiar. He thought he'd seen it around his neighborhood as a kid.

He couldn't do this. Hello, starving artistdom.

"Here," someone perfunctorily said as they handed him a razor. Lucas looked at the blade, then the specimen.

Then he made the decision that forever altered his life and skyrocketed him to a future he'd never imagined. He would, from this point forward, be intrigued by the secrets locked within the body, the stories told by bone and muscle and tissue and organs. He would be motivated to use this to discover the truth and bring about justice. He would, in essence, allow the dead to speak.

The aspiring filmmaker would find himself happily working as an assistant in the coroner's lab in New York's 11th precinct.

But for now, he was just another college student, picking up a razor to shave a dead cat.

* * *

 _short and sweet, this one is! Wrote it around the beginning of the show, some time after Lucas said about his filmmaking aspirations. I had three friends all begin nursing programs this year, and all they talked about for weeks was the cat dissection, so came my inspiration. Not quite sure how old Lucas is supposed to be, nor how long since he graduated from med school, so the date is the best I could come up with._


	3. Starvation

CHARING CROSS

ASYLUM FOR THE INSANE

PATIENT: Specimen: Morgan, Henry James

TREATMENT: Experiment 6.2

JULY 17, 1816: DAY 1

Specimen has been placed in Solitary Confinement naked (as it was in all previous Experiments). Food had been removed from its environment. Water is available to it. Specimen behaved in an acquiescent manner to the Confinement.

JULY 18, 1816: DAY 2

Specimen has vocalized complaints over lack of food. No action beyond speech has been made by the Specimen to communicate. The Specimen's body remains as it was prior to Experimemtation.

JULY 21, 1816: DAY 5

Specimen's body mass is visibly decreased from the beginning of the Experiment. It demands food through speaking, shouting, and pounding the walls of its Confinement. No further observations.

JULY 26, 1816: DAY 10

Specimen showed aggression when a Doctor went to change its water. Specimen jumped on the Doctor and placed him in a chokehold. It demanded food over a threat to kill the Doctor. A second Doctor entered the Confinement room and apprehended the Specimen. Specimen clawed at the Doctors and left superficial wounds in their flesh.

Specimen shows muscle loss and impaired mental functioning.

AUGUST 3, 1816: DAY 17

Specimen's bone structure is clearly visible. Specimen remains lying on the floor of the Confinement. It tried to sit up but appeared to be overcome with exhaustion and slumped to the ground again. Specimen had not drank water for two days now.

AUGUST 5, 1816: DAY 19

The Doctors have forcibly given water to the Specimen. It remains lethargic and unmoving. It has not vocalized since Day 14.

AUGUST 9, 1816: DAY 23

Specimen's stomach has begun to protrude. Skeletal structure is otherwise visible. Specimen moves to retrieve its daily water by crawling across the Confinement floor.

AUGUST 12, 1816: DAY 26

Specimen has not moved since the recording of Day 25.

AUGUST 13, 1816: DAY 27

Specimen died. It's body vanished. Specimen was found alive and it's body was restored to its pre-Experiment state in the Asylum's Duck Pond. Specimen had been returned to the Asylum. No further experiments are planned at this time.

* * *

 _Poor Henry! Just so you know, I wrote this before Adam told Henry about being experimented on by Mengele. I have a headcanon that the asylum accidnetally killed Henry during a waterboarding and so began experiments on him. Doesn't explain how he ended up in the jail, but whatever. Maybe they got bored of him. I sincerely apologize for my cruelty toward our Doctor._


	4. Breaking The Rules

_1946_

"Abigail! We can't-"

"Oh, Henry, live a little!"

She laughed as she taunted him, her head thrown back and her curls unfurling in the wind. The moonlight made a halo behind her, accentuating every beautiful curve and ridge of her face in its profile silhouette.

"It's not as though you haven't done it before."

"But that's different, Abigail! I'm not purposing to do this when I end up here!" He protested. He wrapped his arms around himself to ward off the wind's chill breaths.

"If you don't come in yourself, I might just have to force you," his wife taunted, running up an out to him.

"Come." She demanded, tugging on his arm. "You of all people should know its not near as much fun to skinny dip alone."

* * *

 _literally the shortest story I have ever written. It may not even count as a story. But I like it. So here you go(:_


	5. Silence

_2014 (pre-series)_

The ringing of the phone was the last real sound she'd heard in the past two months. She'd hear it all the time. Out on a case, grabbing takeout, at home, even in her sleep, the discordant echo would haunt her.

Post-traumatic stress. She knew that, intellectually. A ringing phone is to life shattering tragedy as, say, tinsel is to Christmastime.

Christmas. Her first Christmas without-

Stop it. Stop it right now.

 _Remember how he'd sing along with the radio? Obnoxiously loud and horribly off key, absolutely embarrassing you and himself? He'd finish the verse, dramatic hand motions and all, and he'd give you that smile of his. That playful, adorable, Sean smile. And you'd just lose it, Jo. Absolutely lose it._

She decided that this would be a carol-less Christmas.

 _and don't forget the tree. He was a country boy, he had to go out to one of the tree farms and cut down a Fraser fir. You'd always protest, it's so much easier to have an artificial tree in the heart of New York, but he insisted and you gave in. You never admitted it, but you looked forward to it. Tromping around a hillside, for hours, in the cold and snow, nitpicking the saplings for a branch too long here, patch too bare there. And you'd finally circle back to that first tree you saw and realize it wasn't so bad after all._

No arbors, either. Real or fake.

She heard it again. The phone and is discordant warbling. She looked at the device's screen to make sure it wasn't her demons taunting her with unanswered what-ifs again.

No, this was a real phone call. Her heart told her to let it go to voicemail. Phones always brought bad news, and she didn't want to face it. She couldn't deal with it right now.

 _after a bad day, he'd always be there. He'd take you out for Chinese, to your restaurant, the place where you'd first met over a mix-up of dum sum. You and he would sit in the rickety folding chairs and eat the swimming-in-soy-sauce food. You'd pick at the vegetables, not wanting to talk about the tragedy you had to witness the aftermath of. He'd catch your eye, say he was finally pig to learn how to eat with chopsticks. He'd try and try, never picking up anything beyond a grain of fried rice that just so happened to stick to the sticks. You'd find yourself starting to smile as he struggled to eat. He'd finally give up and would end up skewering the food with the chopsticks like an Asian kebab. Depending on your day, you'd just laugh as he failed again, or perhaps you'd make kebabs of your own._

"Hello, you've reached the Moores"

"we must be out saving the world from lawbreakers at the moment..."

"...but when they are vanquished we'll return your call. Squire Sean..."

"...and Detective Jo singing off. Oh, and leave a message, por favor."

 _you and he were interesting drunks together. That was one of the first months. You felt like celebrating, no reason for it. Just you and him, together. After countless drops of alcohol and a few too many cheesy crime dramas, he had this crazy idea written for your answering machine. You weren't too sure about it but the alcohol had loosened you up and you agreed to record the dialogue. It took at lest fifty tries to get it right. You both forgot your lines and every time one goofed, the other burst out in laughter, and the recording was bust. You forgot about that until Hanson asked what on earth you two were taking when you recorded your answering machine message..._

Who had called, anyway?

She pushed the blinking button, still in a daze of memory. Memory of a time before phones were her worst nightmare.

"Hey Martinez. There's a group of us heading out to the bar tonight. Thought maybe you'd wanna come along. That's all. Let me know so I can save you some good stuff."

A bar. Drinks. Noise and an escape fr her tormented mind. Crowds, chaos, friends, freedom from the dark abyss of which she felt herself sliding into the depths.

But even that, she would find, couldn't be heard over the echoes of silence permeating her life.

* * *

 _does a part of this look familiar? I know I used the paragraph about them going out for Chinese in something else... forget what it was now... but here's the original story it went in. Poor Jo. That's Hanson calling at the end, by the way. Didn't really put that in there. wrote this around the same time I started writing Protector. First weekend of November, if I remember correctly. Slightly inspired by the song "Never" by Andrew Huang. I had it on constant repeat until I finished writing._


	6. Professionalism

_1945_

"I daren't stay long, I just had to see you."

He leaned up against the doorframe, his hand still on the brass knob. His long white coat was stained with who-knew-what; they hadn't had a chance to properly wash the lab coat in some time. A stethoscope graced his neck and a sexy smirk grew across his right cheek. In his umber eyes sparkled an inextinguishable passion, and they both knew although he daren't stay long, he would try his hardest to stay longer.

"Henry," came the delicate waif of a voice from the pale rose lips, set below vivid sapphire eyes framed by thin brown lashes; all surrounded by a pinned-up bob of honey-colored curls. The woman's face creased into an expression of worry as she continued to speak. Gosh, she's beautiful when she's upset...

"Henry, you can't be here."

"Henry?" He asked, looking about himself as though another person were supposed to be there. "I don't see anyone called Henry here, do you? First names would imply a personal reason for a visit, and I don't suppose you have any idea what our superiors think of romance on the front lines?"

He paused, giving her a wink and a smile to further intimate the sarcasm of his words. She shyly giggled, halfheartedly covering her smile behind her palm.

"No, I, Dr. Morgan, am here on a very professional matter. It seems the nurse scheduled to aid me until the end of my shift is mysteriously unavailable. So I, Dr. Morgan, am asking, in all professionalism, if a certain Nurse Callaway would be willing to take on an extra shift with myself this afternoon?"

"Why, certainly, good Doctor," she replied, her eyes wide and brows raised so as to be serious, but it was obvious that she was, and in fact they both were, completely overdramatizing the affair.

She quickly changed into her uniform, the good doctor waiting outside her room as she did, in the most professional manner. When she emerged, they strode down the hall together, not touching, just keeping stride with the other, such that he found himself taking shorter strides to account for her petiteness.

They rounded the corner into the actual "hospital" of the temporary military setup, although staff quarters and patient rooms were all part of the same building. At the same time as they came around the corner, it just so happened that (providentially, really) a cart of blood samples was being taken back to another wing to be studied. And it just so happened to be in her way. And he just so happened to be next to her.

He reached out and pulled her close to himself, his strong embrace sending chills of pleasure down her spine. The cart whisked by and the aid worker rashly and rather rudely apologized to the doctor and the nurse.

He took this moment to lean down and whisper in her ear. "And Henry would like to know if Abigail would be available after Nurse Callaway finishes her shift."

"It depends," Abigail whispered back. "Do we have to be professional about it?"

His lips grazed her cheek in the most unprofessional manner as he replied "Not in the least."

* * *

 _so I used a random generator to give me a first line and this is what I came up with. this is literally my best attempt at sexy stuff. Classy sexy. Clexy, as I once heard it called on What Not To Wear(:_


	7. In Memoriam

_Spring 2015_

"Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress."

Jo stared at herself in the mirror, still in her violet blouse and black dress pants from work that day. Her badge rested on her hip, and she had to purpose to pose in front of the body-length reflective glass so as not to have the late evening sun bouncing off of it and glaring back into her eyes.

She ran her fingers through her now-disheveled shoulder-length brown curls. It had been a rough day to say the least. She and Hanson had spent the morning running all over the city chasing a lead, ending in a tense standoff that involved dangerous weapons on both sides of the fight. Of course Henry and his stupid self-destruction instruct had to show up, too.

She couldn't even say it was a lack of self-preservation anymore. The man deliberately put himself in harm's way all the time; and of all people to know how dangerous his stunts were, the ME with the knowledge seemingly surpassing some of the best medical libraries should. Luckily, he didn't end up hurt. This time.

But adding a fear for her unarmed, unprotected friend to the already stressful situation was too much for her mind to take, and as soon as the suspect had been safely apprehended, Jo had left the scene for home, a pan of macaroni, a warm, relaxing bath, and an overplayed rom-com she could mindlessly watch and use to let herself fall into sleep forgetting the stresses of the day.

That is, until she got home and remembered that this train wreck of a day wasn't over yet. In fact, that standoff might've been a breeze compared to tonight, even if Henry _had_ gotten shot. Not fatally, of course.

So now she stood reluctantly in front of the mirror, begging her reflection to let her stay home in baggy sweats instead of going out with a smile as plastic as the heels of the shoes she was doomed to wear. Behind her on the bed lay various outfits, which she'd held up to herself without actually taking the effort to change in and out of each selection. Nothing was right.

Letting out all of the day's stress if only to make room for more, she flopped on the bed, wrinkling her wardrobe if it hadn't already been wrinkled by her careless tosses over her shoulder as she flew through outfit after outfit. She just couldn't do this. Not now, not ever.

But obligation won out, and Jo Martinez found herself platitudinally primping herself in the mirror, a dark emerald evening gown gracing her feminine figure.

{•*•*•*•*•}

The hall was dark, which was good, because she didn't trust her quick makeup job to look terribly presentable. Then again, she could look a little frazzled tonight. At least, she hoped she could get away with it. Greetings descended upon her ears from all around, and she replied in a whirlwind of hellos, hopefully acknowledging each person who had welcomed her to the banquet. At last she found the familiar face she was looking for, the one who would be able to keep her mind in the present and in a happier place than it was doomed to go.

"Jo! So glad you could make it!" The man smiled, his arms extended to pull her in a friendly hug. He looked every bit the part of a successful lawyer, the perfectly-tailored three-piece suit, clean-cut ebony hair, and an air of confidence about him just sympathetic enough so as not to be haughty.

Jo let him take her into his arms, leaning into his chest a little more than was necessary. By other people's standards. For her, he was the only thing anchoring her to sanity tonight.

"Sean would've wanted you to be here," he murmured as she held to him.

Jo nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat although she knew it would only resurface again and again as the night drew on. The man began to lead her to one of the many candlelit tables filling the hall. Each table was surrounded by guests dressed to the nines in fine suits and flowing gowns, sparkling silver and shimmering gold jewelry completing their ensembles.

She was glad she'd convinced herself to wear the dress.

One of the many dapper men came to the podium in the front of the hall and began speaking to the gathered guests. Jo tuned out his words and the following bursts of applause, choosing instead to focus on the slice of bread in front of her. For the first time, she followed proper etiquette, ripping the bread into small pieces and buttering each piece as she created it, as a way to kill the time.

Her partner, her escort, whatever the man with whom she sat was to her, tapped her fingers and directed her attention to himself instead of the wedge of wheat. He gave a quick nod and then left the table, ascending to the platform. Jo pushed her plate aside and braced herself for the impeding emotional turmoil.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," the man began, looking about the room. He let his gaze longer on Jo for a split second longer, to give her a reassuring smile, which she returned whilst absentmindedly playing with the wedding band she wore on a chain around her neck.

"I am attorney David Evans of Tracy, Williamson, and Evans, and I have the honor to present our firm's first scholarship for the Future Professionals of New York foundation. It is indeed an honor to be presenting this award tonight, but it is equally heartbreaking, for this award was born through very tragic circumstances. This scholarship, you see, honors the memory of a good lawyer, a great man, and a dear friend of mine."

The lump returned to her throat and her eyes began to well with tears.

"Knowing and applying law takes a good mind, and both my friend and tonight's recipient had outstanding academic achievements. But a good lawyer is not made by his knowledge, but by his heart. He sees past stereotypes, past appearances, to the individual. And not only does he see that individual, he values that individual and treats that individual with the same respect as for anyone else. And so this scholarship not only entails academics, but service to the community, in which the forgotten are cared for as individuals."

Memories danced through her head. Happy memories. Those simple little things he did that meant the world to her. Why, _why_ did the happiest memories have to hurt the most?

"When this friend of mine passed away this year, I wanted to honor his memory, and nothing was more like Sean than giving to others a chance to make a difference in this world. So, without further ado, the winner of the first annual Sean Moore Memorial Scholarship is Mr. Stephen Willoughby!"

Jo struggled to blink back her tears through David's speech, but managed to smile through her sadness and offer a congratulatory clap for the high school senior who received the award created in her late husband's memory and honor. David and the young man posed for a photograph that would likely be hot off the presses in a few hours time and distributed about the city amongst the newsprint, then each returned to their seats.

When David had first approached her about naming the scholarship in Sean's honor, Jo was hesitant. Sean wouldn't have wanted recognition like that, as though he himself were the generous benefactor and wanted to flaunt it by slapping his name across the award. But as the idea settled in her mind, and the more David pitched it to her as truly capturing her love's essence, she capitulated to the naming. She had no other obligation, the finances were all handled through David's firm, and she wasn't even required to be at this awards banquet run by the foundation.

But, like David had said, Sean would've wanted her to be there.

After the awards were all given out to their various student winners, the evening began to take on a more casual tone, with benefactors and achievers mingling throughout the hall space. Jo had expected herself to leave at the first sign of a chance to do so, but instead found herself making her way toward the young man who had so personified her husband's altruism that he was chosen for the scholarship award: Stephen Willoughby.

She should've given him some sort of congratulations, maybe even said how much he was like Sean, or that Sean would have loved to meet him. But Jo found herself able to give the boy nothing more than a sad smile before she left the banquet hall, made her way home, and cried herself to sleep with her arms wrapped around the unwashed bed pillow that still smelled ever so faintly of his cologne.

* * *

 _Why do I hurt our lovely characters so much? I got this idea after applying for a few scholarships myself (three of which I got!) and a lot of them were memorials to a deceased loved one. I thought, hey, why not have a memorial scholarship in Sean's name? I used that first-sentence generator thingy again on this one, too, so it kind of evolved from both me and that(:_


	8. The Bridge

_2015_

"Midnight, on the bridge. Come alone."

Jo tentatively stepped across the invisible threshold that turned land to bridge. Holding tight to the metal railing, she ascended the gentle slope of the manmade river crossing. Around her, cars whizzed by, creating rip currents of wind and frenetic displays of white and red light.

Each step she took was slow, careful. She had seen too many bridge jumpers to not be seriously afraid of falling from the side; and she'd seen too many car accidents to not fear the machines on the other side of the chasm.

She was about halfway to the center of the bridge when a homeless man pulled her to the ground. He was wrapped in a dingy sheet, holes dotting its worn surface. His wiry beard was the only part of his body sticking out of the covering save his right hand, with which he had pulled her down.

Jo fought the man's grip and struggled to reach for her gun. She tried to whip out what self-defense she could bring to her mind, but _damn_ , this hobo was strong.

"I'm glad to see you heeded my directions, Jo."

The detective froze as the man's words slipped into her ear. Her spine tingled with apprehension, even moreso than it had when she thought he was a random attacker. No, this man had _targeted_ her.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to harm you. Just do as I say." He commanded with a controlling tone. Jo nodded an acquiescence; the thought that hopefully at some point something he asked of her would allow her to draw her weapon at the forefront of her mind.

"Walk to the ledge, Jo. Look out on the river. Do you see the park on the right?"

He practically shoved her to the ledge, holding her hands on the railing with his own. So much for drawing that weapon.

"Yes," she mumbled, letting fear get the best of her. Her frightened gaze was fixed exactly where the waters of the river met the concrete beach of the park.

"Good. Now I want you to look slightly to the left, in the center of the river. There should be something appearing there soon I think you'll want to see."

Jo heeded the mysterious stranger's direction, watching the center of the river for... What? He'd lured her out here by offering a break in her latest case, obviously false pretenses now that she was here. She'd been so focused on wrapping the case that she hadn't even told anyone where she was going. She could've had Hanson here for back-up, she could've just come with more people. Heck, even having Henry here would be better than nothing. And definitely better than the creepy hobo who wouldn't let go of her hands or let her move.

The waters continued to gently flow forward and back, and she was beginning to wonder whether or not the hobo was just mentally insane. Then she saw it. Something changed in the motion of the waves. It almost looked like air bubbles, as if someone were exhaling underwater and churning toward the surface.

And to her utter surprise, a human head burst out of the water, gasping for air. Her emergency-trained muscles jumped to save the person, but she was still held in place by the hobo.

"Watch. Do nothing but watch." He demanded, much more ferocious in tone than before.

Jo watched. The apparating swimmer began swimming for the shore, and as his body came up out of the water, she saw he was indeed a man. And naked. Once ashore, he sprinted to a payphone, covering himself as much as possible with just his hands.

At the same moment, her hands were freed. Jo turned around to see that the hobo had hunkered back down into his blanket. He looked up at her, his eyes wide.

"Isn't that public indecency? Go arrest him, officer!"

Jo looked at the hobo, then the streaker, then the hobo again.

"Is this some sort of sick joke?" She demanded, almost laughing at the audacity of it all.

The hobo smiled, a devious, mysterious smile. "Things will be a lot clearer for you if you arrest that man, Detective. I promise you."

Jo decided to take this to mean that the streaker was the killer she was seeking, if only to give her an excuse to get away from the hobo. She nodded, pulled her gun from the holster, and gratefully departed the bridge.

When she got down to the park, the man had just hung up the payphone and was cowering in some foliage. As she got closer, she could make out more of his features. Dark, curly hair, a bit longer sideburns than usual. Some sort of small scarring on an otherwise picture-perfect chest. A frightened look in his deep brown eyes as she approached.

"You ever heard of public indec- _Henry‽"_

* * *

 _yet another piece brought to you by the first-sentence generator! It literally fell into my lap with this one. If it's not clarified, the hobo is Adam. Obviously pre-finale, last edited early March. Yet another way I thought it would be fun to see Jo find out about Henry(:_


	9. Boot

_2015_

"Morning, Jo," Hanson smirked over his morning coffee as his partner entered the bullpen. There was a glimmer of boyish mischief in his eyes, that glimmer ever-present in the eyes of his two troublemaking sons. Jo caught that glimmer and returned it with a no-nonsense glare of her own.

"Don't you even think about it, Michael Hanson."

"Think about what?" He asked innocently, shifting the mug to his other hand. "I was just gonna compliment your footwear. And I don't think there's a law against that. Then again, who am I to know? It's not like I'm a cop or anything."

Jo rolled her eyes, stopping them again at the disgusted/frustrated look, trained directly at her partner in crime-solving. She sunk down onto her office chair with a sigh of relief, crossing her legs to take the strain off of her throbbing left ankle.

"Don't you have some paperwork to file?" she prodded, intimating her gaze quickly to her ankle before returning it to Hanson's own.

His response was a resounding plunk of a thick packet of paper dropping on her desk from his coffee-less hand. She eyed the papers dubiously.

"Finished 'em before you hobbled in."

Jo clicked open a pen, furiously signed her name on the few blanks left, pressing just a little too hard against the paper's surface, all the while steeling her gaze at her partner. She picked up the now-complete paperwork and, with a flick of her wrist, spun them rapidly into Hanson's open palm. The resultant thwack was enough to make her believe he now had an injury or two of his own, albeit much smaller and tolerable injuries than her own.

"One more word about this..." She snapped with an uncharacteristic venom.

Hanson sighed, a bit over dramatically if you asked Jo, and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you."

Jo took a sharp breath, partially from the pain of adjusting her falling-asleep foot, partially from remembering the sickening twist and snap she'd heard it make the day before, leaping out to push Hanson out of the path of oncoming bullets, making the landing in a most unnatural position.

"I wasn't going to let you go down, Mike," she began, a smile teasing at the corners of her lips. "Even if this does mean incessant mockery of my walking boot."

"Now there's the Martinez I know," Hanson's jocular smirk returned. "You think I was gonna let you walk around in that contraption without saying anything?"

"Only if you think I'm not going to mention how gaudy that scarf is." She grinned, pulling a loose end of the handmade Father's Day present his boys had likely forced him to wear yet again.

"Speaking of scarves, here comes Henry, looking like that cat that ate the canary,"

The wearer of more fashionable scarves approached the two, beaming with pride. He seemed to take no note of Jo's boot, nor the fact that she still had the end of Hanson's scarf in her fingers.

"Not a canary, detectives, but a more common avian delicacy. Our killer is our victim's own immune system's anaphylactic response to poultry."

Jo breathed a sigh of relief. For once, she was glad she didn't have to go traipsing about the city for a killer and she and her healing foot were perfectly content with sedentary paperwork, 9 to 5.

"I believe the poultry was hidden in the victim's food. Have either of you established a timeline that might tell us where Sherman ate his final meal?"

Damn Henry and his propensity for finding the murder in everything

* * *

 _we need a little Jo-Hanson siblingly play, don't we? I wrote this one in early March as well, not much else to say. Enjoy(:_


	10. Drive

_1947_

Rain. It smelled like rain. The sky above was overcast, albeit unnoticed seeing as it was always overcast in the moors of England. That, and it was dusk. A new moon, if he remembered correctly.

Up ahead, two figures ran about the rolling hills. One small and still unused to controlling his legs alone for motion, and one tall, graceful, play-chasing the little boy, who would squeal with delight each time she caught up to him and swept him up in her arms.

The woman turned back, her hair and skirt billowing back with the sudden gust of wind preluding the impending storm.

"Henry, come on out with us!"

She beckoned him with a wave, and the young boy toddled forward to Henry.

"Play, Daddy!" The boy called, as confident yet unsure of his words as he was of his footing.

Henry felt a smile creep up his cheeks. He took a step forward, then another, then another, and was soon running toward the boy, who attempted to run as well as he could, though not very well considering he held his arms high and oft lost his balance. Without worry of booboos, the boy got right back up and kept moving.

The chase went on for about a minute, then Henry caught up and put his arms around the boy in a hug.

"I caught you, Abraham! And you know what that means..."

He danced his fingers along the boy's sides, causing laughter to echo across the moors as Henry tickled his son. Abe tried to wriggle from his arms, but to no avail. Henry only let up when Abe's laughter exceeded his breathing. The toddler stumbled a step away from his father and caught his breath, smiling the whole time.

"Again!"

At that moment, the skies began to open. Small droplets of water slowly sprinkled onto the family, growing steadily to a nuisancey drizzle. The wind picked up and howled across the moors like the werewolves of legend Henry remembered learning as truth.

"We have to go, Abe." The boy's mother said gently. She picked him up and carried him back to the family's waiting vehicle, parked on the side of the road, Henry keeping pace beside her. They adjusted Abe into Henry's homemade safety-restraint (these automobiles are horribly unsafe for a grown man, let alone a small child!), then slid into the front seat, and into more Henry-designed safety restraints, before Abigail turned the key and began the drive home.

Henry watched his wife maneuver the machine across the hills and valleys, the wet streets, the traffic jams, with a calm ease that he could never imagine experiencing as an automobile passenger, let alone as the driver. Abigail caught his stare and gave him a quick glance from the corner of her eye that told him so. He turned his eyes back on the road, as did she.

"You're going to have to learn someday, Henry."

Silence.

"You won't always have me here to drive you around."

"Abigail, don't." He replied sharply.

"I meant if I were to get pregnant! They say it's bad for the baby if you drive when you're pregnant! Don't be so morbid, darling!"

She eased on the brakes, having a red light at one of the few intersections in the rural village they currently lived in. Henry looked at her, an eyebrow raised to her previous suggestion.

"Are you saying...?"

"If only we were so lucky... No, it's still just you, me, and Abe in the Morgan family."

She paused, watched for traffic, then proceeded through the recently-turned green signal light. After she was about halfway down the block of small shops, she continued.

"Nevertheless, I believe that as a twentieth-century man, you're going to need to be able to drive. You need to get over this crazy fear of yours and just do it."

{•*•*•*•}

"I'm not doing this."

"Henry," Abigail sighed, aiming a pointed look at her husband.

"Two horses, Abigail. I learned to drive with two _literal_ horses."

His hands were tight on the large steering wheel, his eyes locked on the country road before him.

"This machine claims to have the power of thirty-five. Thirty-five! Have you ever seen a stampede of thirty-five horses?"

He was desperately scrambling to get out of this situation he'd somehow shoved himself into. He didnt want to admit it, but he was afraid. He was always cautious of new technology; he'd just ridden a train for the first time after Prohibition was let up! When these automobiles started appearing mass-market, Henry had wanted to stay as far away from them as possible. But then he fell in love with Abigail. A thoroughly modern woman, who not only insisted on owning an auto, but actually dared to drive the dangerous metal contraption.

"Oh, just start the car already,"

Henry looked at his passenger helplessly.

"Now you're just toying with me." Abigail laughed. "Henry Morgan, you know how to start a car."

"Honestly, Abby," he sighed, "I do not."

"You take the key," she guided him, putting her right hand on his left, which held the metal device, "and put it in the ignition, and turn it toward you until you hear the engine start."

Abigail let go of Henry's hand, and he turned the key. When the engine purred to life, he jumped back in his seat, startled by the sudden ferocity his actions had caused.

Henry heard a laugh. Beside him, the young blonde smiled and her aquamarine eyes sparkled with tears of laughter.

"What?" He sighed with exasperation.

"Nothing," she said coyly, trying to control her smiling at his fear's expense.

Henry took a deep breath, then apprehensively returned his hands to the wheel. "What next?" He asked, a much more exasperated tone in his voice than he intended.

"Now, you shift into gear."

"I _what_ into _what_?"

Abigail berated his anachronistic behavior with a shake of her head. "You take your left foot and press down- _gently_ -on the left pedal. Then you toggle this stick, the gearshift, into first gear. Slide it left, then down."

Henry very carefully followed his wife's directions and successfully put the car into gear. It began slowly rolling forward by no efforts of his own. He gripped the steering wheel in a panic as he noticed and felt the motion.

"Now slowly press down on the right pedal with your right foot," Abigail directed.

"Will that make it stop?" he asked dubiously. Abigail refused to answer him, and so Henry found out for himself that the rightmost pedal caused an unholy ruckus of the metal engine in front of him, followed by a burst of speed forward. He clung to the wheel, terrified by the car's power, and powerless himself to stop it.

Now, he knew that the left pedal put the contraption into gear, and the right one made it accelerate. So it was only logical that the middle pedal would make it stop.

Slamming one's foot on the middle pedal made it stop _very abruptly._

Henry and Abigail flew forward toward the dashboard of the car and were both thankful for the safety restraints Henry had designed. Really now, someone should realize the danger present in a moving vehicle!

Abigail looked over at him, eyes wide and face stark-white. Her blonde curls were in a disheveled tangle around her face. She took a shaky breath. "Turn off the car, Henry."

"Abigail, I-"

" _Turn it off._ "

Henry did as he was commanded, at least as best as he knew how. He'd left the car in first gear, and when the engine stopped and the car continued to roll leisurely forward, Abigail reached over and pulled the emergency brake. The car came to a halt, albeit a much more gentle halt than Henry had brought it to.

Abigail took a moment to catch her breath. When her words came, they were still puctuated by sharp inhalations as her body relaxed from the panic of the last few seconds. "You, my dear, are going to need a lot more practice."

"You mean to tell me that we are going to do this _again?_ " Henry frowned, pleading with his eyes to never have to do this again.

"Perhaps… In a year or two… It's not all that pressing of a matter at the moment," his wife conceded.

One year turned to two, turned to five, turned to maybe sometime, and, long story short, Henry was not behind the wheel again for quite a long time.

* * *

 _This, believe it or not, was actually one of the first fics I started writing for the show... And I just finished it today. So yeah. Hope this softens the blow a little... *sigh*_


End file.
